Daisy Fried

ought to be the name of someone you love.

it's why they come here, the tired brides, the men, the maids

so-called in ill-fitted dressed.

you'd almost like to see flamingos here

stepping to the bending of trees

and where the flower beds grow to, and then

the plaque that says who and what it's all about.


you know inside is the cataract of life. out

here is for photos, what to show your friends

because it's how to believe they love you

if they nod and squeeze your upper arm in delight

for the flowers all flamey for the flowers all swooney

are sure delightful


i don't know about flowers.

i can't think what i do know about really.

ok, none of the flowers have names.

the gardeners in green caps with big plastic buckets walk like they 

know something about something like they know what they need to know

but they don't speak english. pulling up old dead leaves

and you can't see the hands the way they're inside of stickering

batches. the hands the way they plunge into plastic. leaves! inside

of plastic! what's all this? sorry, no, no spik ingliz.


the cars hishwahhhh on kelly drive. blap blap go the shoes

of runners. deciduous means a whole lot more to me.

shake of tarp and sound of rake. fat kids bike thin paths.

and the brides, and the brides.

wish them the luck of the photographed. 

Found In Volume 25, No. 05
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  • daisy fried
Daisy Fried
About the Author

Daisy Fried is the author of My Brother is Getting Arrested Again (Pittsburgh, 2006)a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and She Didn’t Mean to Do It (Pittsburgh, 2000), which won the Agnes Lynch Starrett Award. A recent Guggenheim Fellow, she lives in Philadelphia.